Manifestations of Discontent
by FinnFiona
Summary: In the wake of existential crises and torture at the hands of werewolves, misery truly does love company. Damon x Caroline, relatively platonic – allusions to D/E, S/E, D/R, C/M, C/T, and perhaps others. Oneshot.


**Author's Note: So this is a bit of a departure for me, in more ways than one… But I've been highly intrigued by the parallels between Damon and Caroline since mid-season one, and itching to delve into this fraught connection of theirs for most of the current season. I will say that although I didn't intend to imply any particularly romantic sparks with this little oneshot, you could likely read something of that nature into it if that's more your speed with these two.**

**As a small aside to any loyal readers, I know I ought to be working on **_**Digressing Through Mist, Abiding Through Fire**_**, but I felt like I just needed to get this out of my system. I hope this will tide you over until I can get back to the other story, which I promise will be soon!**

**And I suppose just in case, I should mention that this contains SPOILERS through 2x13, **_**Daddy Issues**_**.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, just messing about!**

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_**Manifestations of Discontent**_

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**_It's well past four in the morning when you step into the darkened foyer. You don't even bother to knock, simply heave a sigh for the one doorway you've never needed an invitation to pass through.

You're beyond exhausted, and you probably shouldn't even be here, but who will even know? Or care?

"What are you doing here, _Caroline_?" your answer drifts toward you, low but biting through the shadows.

You really should have seen him, silhouetted against the dull flicker of the fire, but of course he saw you first.

He always seems to see you first.

You think you can count on one hand the times you actually took _him_ by surprise. Maybe one finger.

"Damon, I…" your ankle dips, uncertain. The tapestry of their ornate Persian carpets has never seemed so interesting. You curse yourself for being so meek, but you don't have the energy to lift your chin to him tonight. "I… I couldn't sleep, and I was hungry."

This was at least part of the truth. He doesn't need to know the lost and restless parts.

He doesn't say anything, just takes a long sip of his drink and stares you down. But you refuse to cower—there will be no more cowering today.

"I'll…" you falter anyway. "I'll just…" and you speed off to the basement before he can say anything else.

You weren't expecting the scene that greets you—haphazardly torn bags and an open cooler, pools of blood smeared and congealed on the floor. Your eyes sting as you battle the unexpected assault of it.

Still, you aren't about to add 'Cinderella' to the repertoire of nicknames Damon has for you, and that alone should take you out of this room. But it's instinct that turns you on your heal, prepared to satisfy your hunger some other way—_any_ other way than in this place that wreaks of carnage—but he's already in your path.

"You really need to stop treating my house like your own personal Gas 'N Sip, Blondie," he drawls with more menace than you think necessary. He tells you not to draw attention to yourself, doesn't he? And he usually has plenty of blood to go around, after all…

But that's not what you're dwelling on right now. "Damon, what happened here?" you gesture around, mouth still slightly agape.

He swallows hard, a fleeting gesture that tells you there's more than one reason he doesn't want to be down here. "It's been rather a long day," he says pointedly. "There are only so many messes I can mop up before I need a _break_."

You look around once more, piecing together what Stefan and Elena have told you. "So this is what…" it dawns, horribly. "Rose?"

His mouth draws into a thin line—all the answer you need.

And if the crimson liquid battering your senses from every side is testing your own control, you can understand why Stefan hasn't made an effort to clean up either. You know the blood junkie—a term of endearment, you insist, if an accurate one—isn't having as easy a time of it as he'd like everyone to think.

You've wondered if Elena can see that—you think Damon can, but you aren't sure what it'll take to ask for his help.

You just hope it won't come to that.

For so many reasons, you hope it will _never_ come to that.

"Is Stefan home?" your mouth finally catches up with your thoughts. "I wanted to thank him." For being meddlesome and pushy, maybe, but you're still grateful. He knew exactly what you needed… at least, what you should have needed.

Damon quirks his head to the side slightly, a bemused expression easing his features. "You're a vampire, you tell me."

You bristle at the condescension. "Last time I checked this wasn't Dracula's Night School for Newbies," you purse your lips. "And it's the middle of the night, why wouldn't Stefan be here?"

"_You_ asked," he reminds you, a raised eyebrow still challenging.

Frustrated, but determined to prove your worth at least _once_ today, you close your eyes and reach out with your other senses, searching. The worst part of it is that in truth, you know Damon could probably teach you more than Stefan ever will. It might be a lot of learning by example and vowing to do the exact opposite, but Stefan will only take you so far towards being a competent vampire before his guilt and hang-ups and yearning for normal start kicking in.

You've never been one to do things halfway. If this is your life now, you want to know how to do it right—do it _well_. Be _good_ at something, the _best_ maybe, for once. Even if it's killing you to see some of the old things, the old life, slip away. But you're not going to be Stefan, and you're _not_ going to be Damon, so can't you take the best of both methods and just be Caroline?

"He's _not_ here," you realize, eyes flying open. "But someone is…"

"A friend…" Damon's smile is lecherous, but you don't quite believe it, not anymore. He's so close now, that you realize you can smell the blood on his breath past the smoky tinge of bourbon. And you might be new, but you know the scent of fresh blood.

There's a sickening lurch in your stomach at that. Because this could be bad, because he spins out of control too easily, because you're still not sure if he even cares to _stay_ in control—and you can only imagine what everyone else will say… And because you know what it's like to be that girl all too well. But you feel nauseous because on some level you understand.

You really shouldn't be able to understand him—not _him_—but you do.

"Where is Stefan?" you ask at last, biting your lip as if this will still the quaver in your voice.

"He gets those pesky midnight cravings sometimes—chipmunks everywhere beware," Damon shifts his eyes at you, a smirk so well affixed on his features you think it must be his default expression. "Didn't you get enough hugs and long meaningful talks at your slumber party?"

"How do you even know about that?" you frown, deciding it's best to just ignore the insult. Sharp words are pretty much a given when it comes to talking with Damon—you're not even sure you could communicate any other way.

"My brother and I do _occasionally_ compare notes," he's back to bemused, and you could slap him for finding however you manage to cope with trauma entertaining.

"I should probably go," you say instead, anger surging through your veins. But anger is only a last-ditch defense at this point.

"Probably," he agrees, taking a step back.

But the anger is still there, much like it was when Tyler showed up on your doorstep. And now it's the only thing you have left to cling to—anything else hurts too much.

"Would it kill you to show a little compassion?" your hands are on your hips now, if only to keep them from shaking.

He's looking at you with disbelieving pity, and you wonder why you even asked.

"I thought Elena and Bonnie had the compassion covered tonight," he counters, maddeningly.

This touches a nerve you didn't even realize was frayed—or didn't want to notice, anyhow. "They did—or they tried—but Elena doesn't really understand and Bonnie… Bonnie can be a little… judgmental, sometimes." You could hit yourself for saying any of that out loud, much less to _him_, but as soon as you say it you know why you weren't content to stay in your own house tonight.

It strikes you that the smirk he's wearing now is much more genuine, which just barely manages to soften what anyone else would term callous in the face of your obvious mental collapse.

"Would you like a drink?" he grins at you, tilting his own glass.

You open your mouth to refuse, disgusted, but the words never make it out. Instead you find yourself nodding mutely.

Following him back upstairs, you feel yourself deflate. You still think you should run, run back to your bed, back to the conversations that make sense. But a drink sounds impossibly good.

One more way to block out the demons.

As he pours the rich, amber liquid, you suppose this is the most compassion you can get from someone who so rarely receives it himself.

He holds the crystal tumbler out to you, but before you can take it he's pulled it away again. A flash and you're backed up against the wall. He isn't bothering to hold you there with anything more than his gaze, the two glasses still held in his hands, perfectly balanced. But you know better than to try to move.

"Now, now," he's saying, voice low and hostile. "No rewards until we have one thing clear. I was right about the werewolves, and you were wrong. And your ineptitude with Lockwood nearly got us all _killed_. If that hasn't worked it's way into your brain, then I really should just stake you now and save the wolves the trouble."

"Knock it off, Damon," you shoulder past him. "I don't need a drink that badly." You wish he didn't think he had to be so intense and threatening to get his point across—doesn't he realize that you're listening?

You're always listening—you just don't always agree. Or at least _want_ to agree.

"I think you do," he's in front of you again, blocking your progress to the door. "I am _trying_ to _help_ you here, Caroline."

You have every right to scoff at this idea—not the least because he's talking to you like you're barely five years old. Although, considering his actual age, maybe the relative difference feels that way—even Stefan has a tendency to act like some sort of annoyingly wizened sage around you, from time to time. Still, you aren't a child and you don't have to put up with Damon Salvatore if you don't want to.

Even when you know he might be telling the truth.

After all, he did save your life tonight, and seems to keep looking out for you even if he claims to have other reasons for doing so—and you haven't forgotten his words to your mother. But it's hard to erase everything else you know about him, even at your most brutally honest and forgiving.

"You have a funny way of offering help," you settle for crossing your arms insolently.

He does little more than blink, but for a moment you see just how tired he is. As he holds the bourbon out to you in silence, you allow yourself to admit that something has changed. However much he may seem to have reverted to the monster that he was when you first met, to the unflinching, uncaring mask he wears for most of the world, somewhere deep in your bones you know this is different…

If only you could tell if it was for the better, or worse.

He's walking back to the fire now, slouching into a leather armchair. The glass he's deposited in your hand is cool to the touch, and tempting. You take a tentative sip, closing your eyes as it burns a path down your throat.

Alcohol may never have tasted so good.

You're walking a fine line of self-destruction, now, and you know it. But crying about it—about that cage, about Matt, about Tyler, about _everything_—it wasn't enough. You needed your friends, you needed to at least try to work through it, but now it's gutted you out. And you aren't sure what's left.

Damon is glancing over at you as you take a seat on the edge of the couch, an unreadable expression on his face.

"So a toast to wooden bullets?" he raises his glass towards you with a raised eyebrow.

It actually almost makes you laugh, which isn't something you expected to do today. For that, at least, you can offer something in return.

"I'm sorry about Rose," you say, not looking at him. "I know she was your friend."

He's stiffening now, jaw locking, and you think you're an idiot for even trying.

"I know you don't really care, so save the consoling words and the 'let's hug it out' looks," he says, tones clipped. "But if you're ever thinking about getting close to that wolf again, I do have a few horror stories to deter you."

"Tyler and I aren't friends anymore, not that it's any of your business," you answer with the full force of a practiced mean girl. In truth, you don't know _what_ you were thinking. And suddenly, you're saying as much. "I shouldn't have let him get to me," you berate yourself aloud. "But it's nice to have one more reason to stay away, I guess."

Damon snorts at this notion, and you roll your eyes expertly. "Being a vampire is harder than it looks," you add, self-pity urging the next long sip of bourbon to your lips.

"Wait until you've been at it for a century and a half," he counters, much more sincerely than you would have expected.

"_Please_," you dismiss his melancholy rejoinder, "you seem to be enjoying yourself just fine." You jerk your head in the direction of the stairs, toward whatever poor soul sleeps the sleep of the compelled up there.

There's a flash of something in his eyes that makes you think you're missing something—something _monumental_—but it's gone faster than you can swallow your drink.

"I know you don't approve," he leans forward, "but you can skip the lecture—I get enough of those from my white knight of a brother and the _saintly_ Miss Gilbert."

You think he could probably stand one more, though. "Gee, I can't imagine why I'd have a problem with you taking some meaningless conquest and turning her into a one-woman blood bank," you spit out, words dripping sarcasm.

You could swear that it's sadness in his eyes, but his voice holds only unfeeling derision. "There's no need for jealousy," he sits back, satisfied, watching the fuse burn.

"Don't be gross," you hiss, "and don't flatter yourself."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grins.

"_Look_," your better judgment never made it in the building tonight, "I never asked to be your puppet, never wanted to be used and abused to suit your sick flights of fancy, never thought I could let myself be treated like such a pile of useless _crap_. And maybe I was asking for it at first, maybe I wanted to make a point, maybe I thought you'd be an enjoyable notch on my bedpost, but now I have _no_ idea why on Earth I _ever_ thought you were a good idea."

You're out of breath you'll never need again by the end of this little speech. But for a moment, at least, you felt more like yourself.

"Oh, I am most certainly a very bad idea," he agrees, refilling your tumbler before his own. You think this is as much of an apology as you're going to get, but you weren't really expecting one. You're not even sure you need one, really.

"Well don't you worry, I got over it," you assure him, though your heart clenches for the next chapter in the story. "I just didn't get the good guy for as long as I'd have liked, before everything went to hell again."

"Spare me the teenage drama," Damon whines. It's half-hearted, at best.

Besides, you're on a roll, now. "I don't know what I'm even doing… Why can't I just push him away?"

Damon sighs, a put-upon sigh but not an antagonistic one. "We're talking about Donovan now, right?" he squints at you.

You nod, hardly believing Damon is even entertaining this line of conversation. And even if you've circled around these thoughts countless times tonight and many nights before, gathered the answers of those you trust most, you find you're suddenly very interested in what explanation Damon has to offer.

Damn him.

"He's the last unsullied link to your humanity," Damon says quietly, not looking at you. "Those are hard to hold onto… maybe harder to let go of."

There are a few memories of unadulterated honesty mixed into the mess of recollections that is your farce of a relationship with Damon—they were buried underneath layers of misdirection of things you were meant to forget, but they swim to the surface now.

"I _love_ Matt," you don't bother to hide the earnestness, "but I… I'm so confused. And I should just want him to be safe, but I want him to be with _me_. But when he's with me, I _want_…And I thought Tyler…" You push the thought away. "What am I supposed to do?"

You meet Damon's eyes this time, daring him to mock you. To your surprise, he just shrugs. "If I knew the answer to that…" he trails off, swirling the liquid in his glass contemplatively. "But if you're not careful, Blondie, you'll end up just like me—and no one wants that, believe me."

"I am _nothing_ like you, nor will I _ever_ be," you insist, though not as harshly as you might have done even five minutes ago.

"Would that that were true," his smile is strained into a near grimace. "But we have more in common than you think," he finishes off his drink without looking at you.

"Enlighten me," you say skeptically, though the pit of your stomach already seems to be one step ahead. The ball of anxiety growing there wonders what it would mean if he's right. It sends out tendrils that grip every last cell in your body until a tremor runs feebly down your spine.

He holds up one finger, "perpetually coming in second best," and another, "bitter disappointment of a parent. And of course, a nasty habit of wanting what we can't have," a third finger joins the other two.

It's hard to argue with any of that, even if it's not exactly reassuring. "Don't forgot the irrational, debilitating lack of self-confidence prone to causing epic bouts of failure," you add to the list.

Incredibly, he doesn't even argue, only qualifies, "a fact occasionally eased but usually made worse by the power behind being what we are."

You can't believe that he represents your future, can't believe that there isn't another path ahead—but after today, it almost seems inevitable.

"Doesn't it ever get better?" you ask, barely more than a whisper.

He's quiet for a long moment. "I'll let you know…"

You follow his gaze into the fire, still burning steadily in the grate. Distractedly, you wonder why it's even lit—it's not as though either of you need the warmth. It seems amazing now that you never thought to question this, especially when you realize how close you're sitting to something that could kill you—_really_ kill you, for keeps.

Yet as you watch the shadows play across Damon's face, you feel he's seeing something there that you can't. You think he seems to be watching his very soul dance around amongst the flames, burning before him—as though he's trying to figure out how to snatch it back to him without losing everything else in the process.

You remember the anger you keep coming back to—the overwhelming hurt and embarrassment, the spurts of righteous indignation that have just barely kept you afloat today.

But these are transient at best. This fire may not hold your soul—not yet—but it's keeping something from you, something important. Something Elena and Bonnie and Stefan couldn't give back to you, something you have to take back for yourself.

You look on as Damon never blinks—alert and vigilant, red flames never quite managing to swallow up the piercing blue. He seems to feel you watching him, and turns to meet your gaze. Nothing more than a solemn nod passes between you, but it's enough.

You look back to the fire and understand—this is defiance and tenacity and the will to keep fighting.

And you're not giving up.

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**A/N: This was definitely a challenge for me—I nearly deleted the whole thing more than once, to be honest. But I've wanted to do something like this for ages now, and this seemed as good a time as any, so I tried to persevere. Still not sure if it paid off even a tiny bit though, so I'd love to know what you think. Don't leave that review button feeling lonely, eh?**


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